


Just Like Flying

by wishingonafeather



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Injured in battle, Wingfic, Winglock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-23
Updated: 2015-02-23
Packaged: 2018-03-14 19:44:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3423305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wishingonafeather/pseuds/wishingonafeather
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Falling's just like flying except there's a more permanent destination." Sometimes a couple of seconds can change a man's life. In John Watson's case it was a single bullet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just Like Flying

**Author's Note:**

> Massive thanks to Helen (Little_Unicorn) who has translated this into Russian at https://ficbook.net/readfic/4258890

It's amazing how a few seconds can completely change your life. John Watson had joined Her Majesty's Army only 8 months ago, his rare genetic anomaly making him perfectly suited to the position that he had landed soon after graduating from St Bart's. It was just another routine patrol that people like him were part of in addition to their other duties. He beat his wings, revelling in the cooler air at this altitude that was a blessed relief from the dry heat that his flightless colleagues were stuck with.

You would think that a moment that can alter the course of your life would feel different, have some sort of dramatic prelude, but for many it is a moment like any other. A single sharp _crack_ unmistakable to anyone after their first day's weapons training followed a couple of seconds later by a searing pain that made his side feel like it was on fire. He fell for what felt like a century, and was unconscious before he hit the ground below in a slowly growing pool of deep crimson that soaked into the sand beneath him.

The surgeon had said that he was lucky; the bullet had passed clean through the shoulder barely scraping one of the larger veins in his shoulder and the wound would heal easily. But John didn't feel lucky. After grazing his shoulder the bullet had buried itself in his wing, destroying the tendons and muscles that would permit him to move the limb and causing enough nerve damage that the wing would never work even if the muscles were repaired and minimum damage was caused by the surgery to remove the slug. He was grounded, as flightless as the men around him. They offered their condolences but how could they know what it was like? These men and women who had never felt the joy and exhilaration that flight could bring, could never understand the feeling to have that snatched away. A leg, an arm, hell even some parts of the heart could be replaced with metal and plastic, but a wing was impossible to replicate with enough dexterity to make balanced flight possible.

And so he was sent home to London, where he walked with his shoulders hunched and broken wings hidden beneath plain jumpers; a hand gripping a cane for a limp that shouldn't exist and that his therapist couldn't fully explain. A shout from a bench stopped him in his tracks.

"John? John Watson!"

It took a couple of seconds to recognise Mike Stamford; an old friend from his days at university. A few awkward questions later and he was being introduced to a tall man going by the name of Sherlock Holmes who in a matter of seconds had stripped him of his secrets before they went to look at a flat.

Later that evening he was running after this strange man on a chase through the streets of London and John finally remembered how it felt to fly.


End file.
